Finding a reservation for the Mayan Apocalypse: Armageddon Tourism
We’ve neglected to believe other Mayan tenets, like rain dances or believing that the first men were made of maize dough, but somehow we’re all supposed to desperately believe that their calendar accurately predicts the end of the world will happen next Friday, December 21, 2012.
Okaaay.
Apparently, this is enough of a concern that NASA has issued a statement saying that it’s not the end of the world. But that’s not enough to stop thousands of media outlets from reporting on it, or from enterprising tourism agencies to take advantage. Even in Serbia.
Hotels near Eastern Serbia’s Mt. Rtanj are booked for the main (non) event next Friday, thanks to the mountain’s supposed mystical powers. British sci-fi author Arthur Clark declared the mountain to be “the navel of the world.” Sounds kind of gross to me, but it’s not gross to the hundreds of people who are trying to reserve rooms in nearby B&Bs. Until they try to use a pit toilet.
Some believe Mt. Rtanj contains a pyramid inside that will somehow save people nearby. If the pyramid-in-a-mountain sounds familiar, it might remind you of the story of the Visok, Bosnia pyramids I wrote about last year. I’m sure Visok is enjoying a brisk tourism trade as well. (Tip: Visok pizza isn’t bad!)
But the Balkans aren’t the only destination for apocalypse tourism. Pic de Bugarach in the French Pyrenees is also enjoying popularity from people who believe that aliens will rescue anyone there on the 21st. The Bugaraches (I’m sure they’re called that) have been fleecing these tourists for all they’re worth. It’s reported that one local is charging $1,870 a night for a four bedroom house. Don’t worry, you can also rent a camping site for $400 Euros. December camping in the Pyrenees IS the end of the world, as far as I’m concerned.
I hope these people negotiated refundable deposits, because the French authorities have announced the mountain will be shut down on the 21st.
Personally, I’d avoid the cold spots and book a room in Chichen Itza, Mexico. Not only is it warm, but the pyramid’s front and center rather than hiding in a mountain. Nearby hotels are already used to celebrations around the end of the Mayan calendar, and have planned fireworks and concerts at archeological pyramids. No word on whether REM will perform “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” there.
Finally, I’m fortunate to recommend Tical, Guatemala based on personal experience. Muz and I first heard of the end of the Mayan calendar on a visit there in 2007. It’s an awe-inspiring site. On December 21st, it’s also reported to be the site of the “New Dawn for Humanity” world summit, featuring Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, Placido Domingo, Elton John, U2 and the Jackson brothers. And, based on memory, delicious bananas!
However, we aren’t traveling on December 21st. Instead, Muz and I have planned to go dancing. Like there’s no tomorrow.
Tuesday’s travel chuckit list: the Narcisse Snake Pit
I’m adding to my “travel chuck-it” list once more with Narcisse, Manitoba, Canada
What’s wrong with Manitoba, you ask? Why, it’s home to the northern lights! And…the Manitoba Museum…and, um…the Narcisse snake dens.
The Narcisse snake dens are the home of the world’s largest concentration of red-sided garter snakes. Tens of thousands of these snakes spend their winter in underground caverns through the area. In the spring, they emerge for weeks-long mating rituals and to eat the toes of unsuspecting tourists.
Okay, I made up that last part. Garter snakes aren’t dangerous. But tens of thousands of garter snakes are just…icky. After mating, the snakes spend the summer in nearby marshes. And if there’s nothing more special than snake filled caves, it’s snake filled marshes, amirite? Here’s a video shot in case the stills aren’t creeping you out enough. Check out the sound of thousands of snakes writing against each other:
Technically the snake den is just outside of Manitoba, but it’s still pretty close. So I’ll watch the northern lights from one of these places instead, and leave the snake dens to the herpetologists and heebie-jeebie loving tourists.
One more for the travel chuck-it list: The Shrine of Karni Mata
I wrote about my travel chuck-it list a while ago, and when I saw this destination to awfulness I decided to add…
Deshnoke, Rajasthan, India
Specifically, the shrine of Karni Mata.
Perhaps you’re thinking, But RHOB, it’s a temple! You wrote about places of worship every Sunday for a year!
Yes, yes I did. But you know what was never in those churches, temples and mosques?
Thousands of rats.
The Secret of Nimh is…yogurt drinks. Who knew?
Karni Mata was a Hindu mystic born in the 1300s or 1400s, depending on the source. National Geographic notes that at one point, a child of her clan died. Karni Mata tried to bring the child back to life, but was told by the god of death that the child had already been reincarnated as the Hindu faith prescribes. It’s not clear whether the child was reincarnated as a rat, but it was decided that the rest of Karni Mata’s clan would be reincarnated as rats until they could be reborn as humans. (Why no one chose a less…infectious in-between state is beyond me.)
The rats are referred to as children, and given food and drink. National Geographic claims that “eating food or drinking water that previously has been sampled by a rat is considered to be a supreme blessing.” With respect to Karni Mata followers, you know what a blessing is? Winning the lottery. Not eating rat-masticated grain.
Despite the rat’s reputation for spreading disease, there have been no reported cases of plague or other rat-linked sicknesses around the temple. Then again, if these rats are eating gourmet meals, I guess there’s not a big incentive to take a bite of worshipper.
There are at least 20,000 rats in the temple. And that, readers, is 20,000 reasons why it’s on my travel chuck-it list. Going to India? Yes, please. Going to Karni Mata’s temple? Nooooo thanks.
The Amazing Race
I can’t believe no one told me about this last summer: The Ajvar 5k just outside of Washington, DC!
Good news (for me): I am not the only person around here obsessed with ajvar. There is an entire race devoted to the ruby goodness. Okay, so it’s actually a fundraiser for needy children in Macedonia, but runners get a jar of ajvar at the finish. Helping kids, getting a little exercise AND receiving fine European foods? DONE.
Next year’s race is scheduled for September 8th. You can bet I’ll be there–unless I’m lucky enough to be in Macedonia running around Lake Ochrid instead.
Not a runner? You can still help sponsor the event. A donation as little as $5 will get you an honorable mention as a “Friend of Ajvar.” Though really, who ISN’T a friend of ajvar?
For more information, click on the race Facebook page HERE.
Top 5 Places on my Travel “Chuck-it” List
Muz and I are feeling the itch to travel, so we began discussing our travel bucket list. For those unfamiliar with the term, it’s a list of places (or things) you want to see before you “kick the bucket,” or die. Kind of morbid, I know, but you ARE reading the blog of someone who visits crypts for fun, so…
Anyway, our bucket list is a mile long. We’d need two lifetimes to see it all. Instead, I thought I’d make a “chuck-it” list: a list of places that I never want to see. If you gave me a free ticket to go to these places, I would chuck that ticket in the trash–and choose to have dental surgery instead.
RHOB’s Top 5 Travel Chuck-it List:
5. The Pacific Trash Vortex
Click to link to image source
Something with names like “Pacific” and “Vortex” seem appealing, until you realize it’s a vortex of garbage. About 15 years ago, researchers discovered a mass of plastic and garbage floating in the Pacific. The mass is larger than some countries–roughly twice the size of Texas. Currents carry plastics and other forms of man-made garbage to this area between San Francisco and Hawaii, where they float just beneath the surface. Clean up is difficult and expensive because the garbage has broken down into tiny particles that can’t be caught with a simple net. Birds and fish eat the garbage and often perish as a result. Basically, what would begin as a gorgeous sailing trip in the Pacific would become a voyage to see one of humankind’s worst havoc on nature. No thanks.
4. The Arctic Tundra, Alaska
I know, it looks great. Look at those open skies and verdant fields. Stunning! But I’m only going to see it through photos, and it’s not just because I hate cold weather. See the pretty birds in this photo?
They’re not birds. They’re mosquitos.
The Arctic tundra has the highest density of mosquitos in the world. And if there’s something I hate more than cold, it’s mosquitos. Seriously. Did you know there is, scientifically, no reason for them to exist? And yet they live here in vast numbers. It’s recommended that visitors cover every inch of skin to protect themselves from these useless insects. And even then, it doesn’t seem to keep them at bay. Check out this guy:
Would you visit him? I didn’t think so.
3. Pripyat, Ukraine (Chernobyl)
Click to link to image
I gotta admit, I struggled with this one. I mean, it’s a post-nuclear ghost town! Some people still live there, amidst the rusting rubble of a once-vibrant(ish) city. You can take tours of nuclear facilities and examine buildings where all activity stopped after April, 1986. Still, the constant assurances of “minimal” radiation exposure are a little nerve-wracking, as are warnings I’ve read about eating produce and fowl from the area. Plus, there was that gross horror movie about Pripyat. I’m sure it’s just a story, but I’ll stick to sightseeing in Kiev.
2. Verkhoyansk, Siberia
Remember reading that I hate being cold? This is the coldest (inhabited) town on earth. It can reach -60 degrees F. People eat frozen pony liver as a treat. However, you’ll see stunning landscapes if your glasses haven’t frosted over. This amazing article says everything I want to say, but better, since the person actually braved the elements to go there and I will not. Tip of the hat to you, good sir. Besides, I’ve just managed to teach people that I lived in SERBIA, not Siberia, and I really don’t want to have to explain the difference all over again. (Hint: they’re totally different!) PASS.
1. Christmas Island, Australia
My, doesn’t that sound lovely! Christmas Island! Well, ho ho ho, because the joke’s on you. This is Christmas Island:
Taken from the blog of a serious crab lover. Click image to link.
Every year, the island experiences a mass migration of its–wait for it–43 million red land crabs. These crabs don’t exactly respect boundaries–you can easily find videos of people sweeping them out of their homes. Oh, and by-the-by: there are 13 OTHER species of crabs on the island, including the largest crab in the world, the coconut crab:
Click to link to image
It’s a good thing this crab likes coconuts, and not cash. Because I would throw my wallet at that thing and run away like the wind. Seriously, I’m going to have a nightmare about this crab.
As if it couldn’t get better, Christmas Island is also known for its guano (bird, seal and bat feces) mining. Amazing! But no thanks on that invitation to Christmas Island. I have, um, a very important thing to do instead. That doesn’t involve giant crabs and poop.
No, it’s cool. You go ahead.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’ll go anywhere with a free ticket. As long as I can properly defend myself from cold/crabs/mosquitos and dieting travelers. Readers, what’s your chuck-it travel list?
Pet Peve Petak: when wi-fi is sky high
This place has free wireless…
We encountered free wireless in every single “budget” place we stayed: B&Bs, pensions, room-over-a-garage, whatever. For a dedicated blogger, (remember those days?) free wireless was my main concern.
“Is this place clean?” Maybe. “Does it have wireless?” Yes. “Let’s book it. We’ll ignore that it’s on top of the train station.”
Then I joined Muz on business trips, and the hotels improved considerably. We stayed in places with brand names (!) with things like working elevators and lobbies. It was amazing—until I tried to get online and was informed that I needed to pay $15-$25 a day to connect.
The more you pay for a room, the more you pay for wireless. WHY!?!? Let’s examine excuses I found online:
1. Wireless charges replace the lost revenue from long-distance phone calls and pay-per-view movies.
RHOB Reaction: Resignation. It’s not fair, but I believe this one, a little. However…when was the last time hotels made a profit on long distance phone calls? 1999? Cell phones have made this all but obsolete, even abroad. Especially abroad.
This place charges for wireless.
2. Business travelers/companies are willing to pay anything for internet.
RHOB Reaction: Resentment. Sigh. I think this is probably correct. However, what if you’re NOT a business traveler? Surely hotels can look out for the self-employed, the tourists, and the plain old cheap. And $25 A DAY? That’s more of a rip-off than a stale bagel “continental breakfast buffet.”
Some nicer hotels offer free wireless to people who have hotel status points (usually through business travel). So, in exchange for weeks and thousands of dollars spent at your “luxury” hotel, paying for internet, you finally get something that’s free at Starbucks. Okayyyy. It’s this kind of accounting that got American bonds downgraded. Just sayin’.
3. It’s only fair to charge for internet, because not all guests use it.
RHOB reaction: Rage. This is just…insulting. Most travelers use the internet, whether it’s to check email, make travel plans, or download better movies than the hotel offers on pay-per-view. And there are lots of things that I don’t use in a hotel. Coffee makers. Shoe horns. Shower caps. Those felt things that supposedly polish shoes. No one’s knocking money off my hotel bill for leaving these items alone.
If I can get free wireless at a gas station, why can’t I get it at an upscale hotel? Of course, I’m digging my own grave with this one. Muz told me that there’s a way to avoid this problem—by only staying at the cheapest places. Double sigh…
The best one-stop shop in Puerto Rico
While in Puerto Rico I stumbled upon this public laundry/art gallery/coffee shop. If they had sold pastelillos (meat pies) and piña coladas I wouldn’t have bothered going anywhere else.
Ponce: the Puerto Rican Subotica
RHOB: “Ponce is a lot like Subotica. If I write a blog post about this place, I’m going to title it “Ponce: the sister city of Subotica.”
Muz: “No one will get that.”
RHOB: “My Serbian readers will know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Muz: “Okay, so twenty people will get it.”
RHOB: “That’s all I need.”
Muz had some time off between meetings on a Sunday in San Juan, so we decided to explore Puerto Rico’s second largest city, Ponce. Our guidebook noted that Ponce was home to a beautifully restored town center featuring fountains, a 300-year old church, and artistic carnival masks. “Let’s check it out!” I said, and dragged Muz away from the beach and into the rental car. (Before you feel badly for him, trust me. That pale man does not do well in tropical sun.)
We drove for about 45 minutes until we saw the “Ponce” sign across the highway. People were taking their photos by the big letters, but we pressed on. 
Ponce’s city center is largely pedestrian, so we parked on the outskirts and wandered in. I was excited to see masks and pretty buildings and…well, I didn’t know what. I had read that the city had spent half a billion dollars restoring its architecture, but we entered the town center via a street lined with gently rotting wooden houses painted in bright colors. I wondered where the money had gone.
“Let’s see the church,” I said, and we walked to the Ponce cathedral, an impressively large white building that started out as a tiny chapel in 1670, and expanded as the town’s power grew. Our guidebook noted its beautiful stained glass windows and declared it a “must-see” of Ponce. We walked to the front door, with thoughts of Church on Sunday posts swirling in my head, only to find it locked. On Sunday. Hmmm.
We then wandered through the sleepy, largely empty town square toward the famous lion fountains. Even they seemed subdued.
The wildest building was the old firehouse/current museum, with a red and black facade that seemed at odds with the pastel colors all around us.
While it was all quite picturesque, I felt none of the energy that I expected in Puerto Rico’s second largest city. The colorful buildings, empty storefronts and quiet atmosphere made me think of Subotica. They both share ornate pastel buildings and a sense that their best days were sometime in the last century.
Ponce
And just like in Subotica, we found a locked church, a sleepy town center, and a pedestrian area with expensive but elusive renovations. COINCIDENCE? Maybe I was watching too many telenovelas, but it seemed like I had stumbled on the world’s best plot twist: a secret twin!
Subotica and Ponce may be thousands of miles apart, but they had the same relaxed attitude and shabby charm. One sold mangoes, and another sold local honey. Though it wasn’t what I expected, it was a relaxing way to spend an afternoon and remind ourselves of our Serbian life.
Detective RHOB and the quest for Puerto Rico’s perfect pina colada
A few months ago, Muz had a business trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico, and I sweetly asked to tag along. As we packed, I talked about my plans to explore Old San Juan and soak up the sun. Truthfully, I had a secret agenda: to find the best pina colada in the city. Sure, RHOB is always up for a cultural cocktail, but there was more to my quest than meets the eye. I, dear readers, consider myself something of a pina colada conocedora. My parents like pina coladas, I like pina coladas, and I am often required to make them at summer family events. A pina colada has four basic ingredients: rum, coconut cream, pineapple juice, and lime. It sounds deceptively simple, but the rum and ratio of ingredients is the difference from a good pina colada and sugary swill. I figured there was no better place to sample the frothy, coconut goodness than at its birthplace in San Juan. It’s Puerto Rico’s national drink, after all.
The origin of the pina colada is a bit of a mystery: it was certainly invented fifty years ago in San Juan, but the Hilton Caribe and Restaurant Barrachina both claim to be the birthplace of this perfect beachside drink. I thought, What would Olivia Benson do? and decided to try them both.
I first went to Barrachina, located in the heart of Old San Juan (OSJ). OSJ is a touristy spot, and Barrachina was no exception. It was filled with cruise ship day trippers and sunburned conventioneers. Undeterred, I saddled up to the bar and asked the bartender for a pina colada with light rum. And proceeded to be very, very disappointed. The pina colada came. out. of. a. MACHINE. I don’t know how I missed it when I was talking to the bartender, but the machine was right there. A swirling, pre-made pina colada machine that looked like it was straight out of 7-11. HERESY.
Source: http://tinyurl.com/b75n45m
Needless to say, I felt a bit cheated. I’ll bet they didn’t make it out of a machine in the 1960s. The drink itself was pretty good–a little heavy on the pineapple–but I walked out thinking that Barrachina was relying on a tourist trade that rarely returned.
I moved on to the Hotel Caribe, in a less-than-ideal location between Condado and Old San Juan. They had signs celebrating the 50th anniversary of the pina colada, which I thought was a good sign…until I asked the waitress for a pina colada and she walked away without asking what kind of rum I wanted. Uh oh. Rum is a very diverse spirit–there’s light and dark and gold and spiced and overproofed and premium–all without even getting into brand names. But I’ll say this: it looked pretty. It tasted…pretty much the same as the Barrachina one. I heard blenders running, so I presume (and hope) that it didn’t come out of a machine. Yet it seemed again a bit too pineapple-ish and acidic for my taste. After sampling some others around San Jan over the course of four days, I came to one amazing conclusion: the perfect pina colada was the one that I made at home. Here’s the recipe:
- 1 can Coco Lopez coconut cream (do not substitute)
- 5 ounces light rum
- 8 oz. pineapple juice (don’t go cheap here–too sweet is deadly)
- 4 cups crushed ice
- Juice and slice of one lime in each glass
- Here’s the kicker–a tiny, tiny float of dark rum. Not enough for you? Dust a dash of nutmeg on top.
Save the maraschino cherry for a Shirley Temple. Pour in glasses and serve.
It wasn’t my most difficult mystery, but it was among the tastiest. Lesson learned: sometimes the answers are right under your nose…in a frosted glass with a slice of lime in it.
Tout sweet: sampling Paris’ finest pastry at Jacques Genin
Leave the hot dog, take the roll
You know those “Three days in Paris” articles? Let’s take that a step further. If you only had 15 minutes in Paris, there’s only one thing you should do: eat pastry. Grab a pain au chocolat at the airport, filch a croissant from a hotel, steal a roll from a pigeon if you have to. Even if you’re can’t go to the finest pastry shop, it’s bound to be pretty freakin’ good in Paris.
But if you have more than 15 minutes, do yourself a favor: eat pastry at Jacques Genin.
I first heard about Jacques Genin while researching Paris-Brest pastry. (Why yes, I research pastry shops before a trip. Who doesn’t?) The Paris-Brest, a tire-shaped pastry filled with hazelnut praline cream and dusted with powdered sugar, was created by a baker to commemorate a 750-mile bicycle race from, you guessed it, Paris to Brest. We commemorated this history by walking a whole mile (!) to Jacques Genin, one of one of the best places to try the classic pastry.
As I opened the door, Muz stopped me. “This is a jewelry store,” he said, and I had to correct him. Those gleaming babies in the window were caramels, not jewels.
We walked into a huge, flashy area that seemed more like a showroom than a pastry shop. I was a little nervous, wondering if a place this fancy was more focused on decor than food. Thankfully, we ordered anyway. Muz got the Paris Brest, and I ordered the choux vanille. Muz decided to go one step further and order the hot chocolate, too.
After one bite, I felt like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix:
The Paris-Brest was amazing. Not too chocolate-y, with the perfect amount of praline and hazelnut in the cream. And my vanilla dessert? AAAAh-mazing, with a generous amount of Tahitian vanilla speckling the cream.
The hot chocolate was super thick and not too sweet. I was way too full for my usual “I just want to try it” gulp, so I took a few sips and waited for the sugar high to knock me to the ground.
We realized that there was lots more to try, and no more room in our stomachs. So we bought some caramels to go, with the stern warning from the shopkeeper that they would only be good for a day or two. Not to worry: at 110 euros per kilo, we were only buying a few of them. We savored the last caramel on our last day and realized it was just like our Paris trip: short-lived, sweet, and worth every calorie. So if you only have an hour in Paris, check out Jacques Genin. You may have to run for three hours to work it off, but it’s worth it.
Pet Peeve Petak
(Petak is Friday in Serbian…)
I don’t know if this will be a regular thing, but I thought I’d focus on one of the annoyances of travel this Friday. And the winner is…
crappy hotel hair dryers!
This is a European special. It’s basically a small fan that gently blows air on your head. This is a nice way to dry a manicure, but when I actually want dry hair (a MUST for RHOB) it’s not exactly what I’m looking for. There are two speeds to this kind of model: slow and super slow. The only thing exciting about this hairdryer is the mystery of whether the air will be warm, cool or scorching hot.
Ok, so I’m laying it on a little thick. But riddle me this: why are hotel hair dryers usually so terrible? According to a random website, women make up 50% of business travelers and make 80% of the travel decisions. And most women use hair dryers.* Yet most chain hotels offer a dryer that’s akin to someone waving a palm leaf over my head–without any of the luxury. So here’s a tip from RHOB, hoteliers–look out for the ladies. And if you do, advertise it: I’m more likely to book with you than lug my hairdryer everywhere.
*Totally made up fact, but it SEEMS true.
A universal word?
I tried to find another word for graffiti but came up short. Could this be a universal word, like shampoo, google and coca cola? Is there some nomadic tribe wandering around, complaining about little dobogoogoo’s graffiti tags?
I guess Madonna was right: life IS a mystery. So feast on the only graffiti I liked in Paris, wandering around the Marais.
Paris Blues
When I was in Paris this August I noticed all these blue doors around the Marais.
Then I realized they were all over the city.
I tried to research the reason behind it–they all seemed the same shade of blue, or something close to it–but I didn’t find anything.
Is there some citywide special on blue paint? A serious case of the copycats?
Or does everyone just love it as much as I do?
Unchain my heart: “Love Locks” in Europe
On our recent trip to Paris, I noticed a slew of locks attached to the Pont de l’Archevêché . It reminded me that we’ve seen locks on bridges in Prague and Ljubljana, and while I knew the locks represented love, I never researched why. Luckily, a New York Times article did it for me.
The article claims that installing “love locks” on a bridge became popular after Federico Moccia wrote a 2006 book titled, I Want You. In it, a man tells a woman a made-up legend in which lovers encase a lock around a bridge, lock it and throw the key into the Tiber, to show that they’ll never leave each other. After the book sold over a million copies, life became art. However, it’s worth noting that one journalist actually cites it as a Serbian tradition from World War II, when couples from the town of Vrnjacka Banja symbolically sealed their love before the men went off to fight.
Regardless of its origin, the practice hasn’t been confined to Europe. A quick web search shows that there are love lock bridges on almost every continent. I even found several websites encouraging honeymooners to bring locks with them and “seal the deal,” so to speak.
Butcher’s Bridge, Ljubljana
Here’s the thing: it’s really stupid. Not only do the locks damage stonework and affect the weight of the bridge, crappy padlocks add nothing to architectural beauty. They do make for some interesting pictures, but that’s about it.
As much as I love Muz, I’m not buying a perfectly good lock, wasting it on a bridge, and then polluting the river with a metal key. I guess I’m just cheap. And not terribly romantic.
Besides, love–and locks–can go awry. Apparently, spurned lovers sometimes return and write terrible things about their (former) loved ones on locks and bridges. So while I’m all for tradition, especially Serbian ones, I’d advise people to leave their locks for luggage–and seal your love with a kiss instead.
Prague’s Love Locks
Traveling to the final frontier
I know I’ve been sporadic, to put it kindly, but I’ve joined National Blog Post Month, to force myself to write every day the month of November. RHOB is going to get her blogging grove back, people!
Now that I am no longer a housewife (alas) and no longer live in Belgrade (tragic), my travels have slowed down to a trickle. It doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about adventures, including the ultimate adventure: space travel.
The NASA program may have ended, but private space travel is just beginning. A Russian carrier is taking people to the international space station for a mere, ahem, $35 million dollars. Virgin Galactic could offer space flights within a year. Last month, someone JUMPED from space to Earth. Okay, maybe I’m not that desperate to be in space.
Why wouldn’t you want to experience a space flight? Every now and then, I talk about this to someone who has no interest in going. “It’s a long flight,” “It’s dangerous,” and “you wouldn’t get to see anything” are the most common excuses.
Long flight? No doubt. For $35 million though, I’ll bet you get free wine and Ambien. Dangerous? Honey, I’ve floated my car on an Albanian “ferry” that Huck Finn would have rejected. Danger is everywhere. You wouldn’t get to see anything? You’d get to see the Earth. From space. Drinking Tang. Eating freeze-dried ice cream. How is that not enough for you?
Plus, to be perfectly honest, I would love to casually mention it when I’m in a room with someone who thinks they are the Most Important Person Ever, which happens all too often in D.C.
THEM: “Oh, I am so very important because….”
ME: “That’s great. Have you been to space? No? It’s pretty cool. You should go.”*
So, anyone have $35 million to spare?
*Sadly, even this may not raise eyebrows. NASA headquarters is only 30 minutes from D.C. At least I could get packing tips for my trip…
Creepy, er, Crypty Paris
Paris is wonderful to visit, but hard to write about. The city of lights is host to a million clichés that have already been expressed in countless paintings, movies and books. What’s a blogger to do?
Most would forget about writing and spend their time soaking in the romance of the city and eating lots of excellent food. However, I’m not most bloggers (though I did eat excellent food.) Forget romance! I set out to find a different kind of Paris—creepy Paris.
Or more specifically, Crypty Paris.
The Paris Catacombs are a 15th century mining tunnel that became home to six million skeletons between 1785 and 1860. Apparently, the local cemeteries were getting so full that the city began suffering from health problems. I won’t get into the gross details, but the King moved remains to abandoned quarry tunnels beneath the city to improve public health (or open up some much-needed real estate, depending on your cynicism.) Despite controversy at the time, remains were relocated to spend their corporal eternity under the bustling streets of Denfert-Rochereau, an otherwise charming, ordinary, section of Paris.
Is it weird? Yes. Did I want to see it? Of course.
So did other people. We got there and waited in line for about 30 minutes. I tried to get in the zone for Creepy Paris, but the beautiful weather was distracting. Also distracting: the Jean-Paul Gaultier promotional Diet Coke cans that adorable Parisian teens were passing out to the crowd.
Decidedly not creepy.
At least the entry sign put us in a creepy state of mind: “The tour could make a strong impression on…people of a nervous disposition,” it read. Okay, not exactly scary. But scarier than the Diet Coke. I wondered if my effort to find Creepy Paris would be a bust. At this point, the scariest thing was the threat of a bakery selling out of pan au chocolat.
We entered the catacomb tunnel and walked for about 400 meters, craning our heads at every nook to see bones. We needn’t have worried. It’s pretty hard to miss the sign reading, “Stop! This is the empire of the dead.”
We entered the crypt path between a low wall of carefully arranged tibias and skulls that hid a more random arrangement behind them. The sheer number of bones piled along the walk was striking; reading that six million people are buried here is no comparison to walking among them.
I found the first few minutes interesting. Then it felt odd. Finally it was, well, creepy. I don’t mind skeletons: readers may recall that I visited an ossuary (vocabulary alert!) outside Prague last summer. Yet the combination of poor lighting, a tunnel, and almost a mile of bones forced me to develop an uneasy peace with catacomb residents. I avoided puddles and any chance of brushing up against the bones. There was a decidedly musty smell that (I told myself) had more to do with moisture than rotting bones. The worst part was my one nagging thought: where are the rats? Muz said he thought about an earthquake. Apparently the creepiest thing about the crypt wasn’t the remains, but our own morbid imaginations.
We emerged from the tunnel and found ourselves blinking in a sunny side street in Paris, surrounded by people who either didn’t know, or didn’t care, about the city of bones beneath them. Creepy–or just a fact of life (death)?
We could’ve spent the rest of the day thinking about the meaning of life and the existential quotes carved into the catacomb walls, but chose to focus on a scarier idea: what if we left Paris before visiting a true pastry shop? Now THAT was a creepy thought in Paris.
Was this post not creepy, I mean, “crypty” enough for you? Check out these boney-fied tourist destinations from National Geographic HERE.
The beauty, tragedy, and lessons of Venice
Readers, sorry for the delay in posts. I went from being a Housewife of Belgrade to a Jobseeker in Washington, which is twice as busy and isn’t half as fun. Still, I thought I would share one of my last trips while I was a Beogradjanka: Venice, Italy.
Early on, I asked Muz to take me to Venice. We’d heard it was only a six-hour drive from Belgrade (seven hours if you don’t drive Serbian/Muz/Italian-style) and I wanted to see it with the man I love. Cheesy, but true.
I first went to Venice with a girlfriend from college. It was a lovely trip, but we kept looking around the impossibly romantic city and asking, “What am I doing here with YOU?” Also, she had no interest in food and kept demanding that we eat cold pizza margherita off the street. It killed me.
So when our last group of guests (FK Milos) was visiting, we drove to Venice for one night so they could make their return flight out of Italy, and Muz could avoid hearing me say “I can’t believe you never took me to Venice,” for the rest of his life. Clever.
We took the vaporetto (ferry) into Venice just as the sun was setting. It was just as lovely as I remembered it, if not more so.
It’s often said that Venice is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I have to agree. The buildings are beautiful, the waterways are calming, and there is a distinct sense of stepping back in time. Though Venice is almost entirely tourists, it doesn’t detract from the atmosphere. Venice is a living museum, and tourists are part of the tableau.
Venetian glassmaker tools
I love the buildings, churches and museums, but the true beauty of Venice is its sense of tragedy. The entire city is sinking an average 7 centimeters (2.75 inches) a year. Every November, floods erode buildings. There is a doomed urgency to see it, feel it, drink it in before it becomes the next Atlantis. Walking around its famed canals, I wondered if the next generation–or even next year’s visitors–will get to see it the same way I did.
I try to remember this feeling wherever I travel. Most places aren’t sinking, but they change in other small ways, millimeter by millimeter. Customs fade away, global food chains dominate the marketplace, and villages empty. Travel allows me to be a mini-historian; I can witness and enjoy how places differ from each other and in time. The differences can be good, bad, or simply different. It doesn’t always matter. What matters is what I can learn from a new, or revisited, adventure.
In Venice, I remembered that history is important, the future is uncertain, and the present is meant to be enjoyed with pastries. As I start this new chapter in the States, it’s a lesson I’ll try to keep close to my heart.
You can take the girl out of Chipotle, but you can’t take Chipotle out of the girl: American expats and Mexican food
Two years ago, I briefly joined friends who were taking a year-long trip around the world. We met in Thailand while they were eight months into their adventure. Over Chang beer and fiery noodles, I asked them what they missed about America.
I thought they would say “knowing the language,” “fabric softener,” or “hot showers and air conditioning.” The answer was none of the above. They missed Mexican food.
Now that I have an extra appreciation for how our friends felt, I’m even happier that we tried Mexican food in Thailand. It was a mad experiment in international food relations. Our burrito was more of a spring roll, with thoughtfully applied ketchup in place of salsa. Mexican food in Siem Reap, Cambodia was a little better. The “guacamole” was bright green and appeared to be made of peas, but at least the consistency was right. The chips were made of crispy rice paper and the salsa was edible. I watched my friends savor each bite and thought, these poor souls. They simply don’t remember what it tastes like.
Mexican food is a uniquely American experience. You’d think it would be a uniquely Mexican experience, but no. Unless you live in Texas, the Southwest, or Southern California, “Mexican food” is a bizarre hybrid of American, Latin American, Caribbean and South American cuisine. It’s massive burritos with sour cream AND guacamole, margaritas from a machine, Cuban black beans, and deep-fried taco bowls with salad inside (you know, so it’s healthy). It’s kind of disgusting, and I totally miss it.
This year, I can relate to my worldly friends more than ever. Belgrade doesn’t really do Mexican food. Serbians are generally not fond of anything spicy. Mexican ingredients are rarer than an empty seat on the 41 bus line. Black beans? Forget it. Hot sauce? Ha! Cilantro is the Bigfoot of Belgrade markets–people claim they’ve seen it, but they can’t remember where. If they do find it, they paid a huge price and then never see it again. Maybe that’s how I should have spent my time here–forming a black market for cilantro and picante sauce.
There are Mexican restaurants in Belgrade–just not any good ones. Beans are canned and bland. phyllo dough is used instead of tortillas. Some grocery stores do sell flour tortillas (how are Serbians using these?) so at least I can make my own fajitas and tacos. It’s not quite the same.
Fortunately, we found authentic American-Mexican food at Iguana. Unfortunately, Iguana is in…Budapest. Yes, that’s three hours away, but we travel there pretty frequently and three hours is a lot closer than Texas. When the craving gets too bad, Muz and I count down the days until we’re back in Budapest so we can get the best quesadillas this side of the Atlantic. On our last visit, we even ordered jalepeno poppers.
I wouldn’t order these in the States if you paid me, but here they were good. Actual jalepenos, lightly battered, served with a local cheese that was a better replacement for cheddar and sour cream. What’s that on the side? Why, it’s a Michelada: a delicious concoction of lime juice and beer with a salt rim. Technically there should be some tomato juice too, but I’m not complaining.
We’ve been to Iguana five or six times this year, and it never failed to make us happy. It’s a little slice of home in a part of the world where “run for the border” has an entirely different connotation. But now that we’re leaving, I can’t help but wonder if I even remember what it should taste like. I guess I’ll find out soon.
Balkan beats banned from Macedonian buses
Okay, so it’s not Serbia, but I thought this article was too good to pass up. From the Associated Foreign Press:
SKOPJE — Public transport bus drivers in Macedonia’s capital have been asked to replace turbo folk melodies popular throughout the Balkans with classical tunes and easy listening music, officials said Friday.
After numerous passenger complaints, managers of Skopje’s public transport company JSP decided to equip new Chinese-made double-decker buses with about 400 song-playlists prepared by Macedonia’s prominent DJs.
“Our passengers complained demanding the music be changed. I know that we cannot satisfy everyone’s taste, but I believe most of them will be happy with the choice,” manager Miso Nikolov said.
No turbo folk? I can’t imagine this in Belgrade. Listening to turbo folk is a god-given right here, like smoking and nursing coffee for two hours. For those who don’t know what turbo folk is, it’s traditional Serbian (or Balkan) music set to a techno beat. There are tons of examples, but here’s one from Ceca, Belgrade’s arguably most famous turbofolk singer.
I don’t know whether I’m proud, embarrassed or indifferent that I (1) know this song and (2) no longer consider turbofolk a “change the station” moment. I’m pretty sure that we don’t have any music on Belgrade buses, but if we do, I’m very sure that there’s some turbofolk and that it’s here to stay.
You can read the full AFP article HERE.
Church on Sunday: A rocky afternoon at Sziklatemplom Church, Budapest
On a previous trip to Budapest with friends, someone asked me about the cross on top of a rock near Gellért Baths. A quick peek at the guidebook revealed that it was Sziklatemplom, a church built in a natural cave. While my companions decided to relax in Gellert’s thermal baths, I explored the cave church. Dedicated blogger or poor decision-maker? You decide.
Church admission comes with a free audio guide. The church chapels were created from a natural cave system. The caves were first inhabited by a hermit monk who used the hill’s thermal waters to help cure the sick. (If he was a hermit, how was he meeting and treating people? Just a thought.) The cave turned into an official Paulite church in 1926 and it was later expanded. The Paulite order is the only native Hungarian order. According to random internet sources (only the best for you guys!) it was founded in 1256, ended in 1773, and was re-instated in 1923; the monks of the order were once confessors to Hugarian Kings.
Oddly, the audio guide didn’t detail some of the church’s more interesting–and tragic–history. In 1951, during Hungary’s Communist era, the police sentenced Sziklatemplom’s chief Bishop to treason and death. Other monks were given prison sentences, and the church was sealed. After the fall of Communism in 1989, the Paulite order reopened the church for service.
The audio guide also featured a surprising amount of proselytizing. I skipped over some of this to focus on the discussion of the church, but to be honest, the architecture isn’t that interesting. It’s a simple church but not quite humble and not quite quaint. If you don’t have a lot of time in Budapest, I’d advise you to follow the lead of my friends and check out Gellért instead. Or go to a jewelry store on Vaci Utca and check out the best kind of rocks: sparkly.
To reach the church, go to Gellért hotel, face outside of the doors. Look for the big white cross; the church is below the cross and next to a statue of St. Istvan.
Bizarre Budapest II: A perplexing people mover
Riding a scary Budapest “vertical escalator” in four steps:
Step one: See that gold ledge on the right? That’s the platform. Step on it before it goes up too high, or risk hitting your head. Or miss it entirely and look like an idiot in front of everyone else waiting for the elevator.
Step two: Pretend you’re in something larger than a coffin.
Step three: face outward. (You don’t actually have to do this, but everyone else does.)
Step four: When you get to your desired floor, hop off quickly. Otherwise, the ledge merely flips over–yes, flips–and you may have to learn how to say “Doctor, I think I broke my leg” in Hungarian.
Step five: congratulate yourself for (1) not dying and (2) refraining from pretending you’re in a Harry Potter movie. Out loud.
Have a happy weekend, everyone!
Small Thoughts on Long Distances
Thursday has unofficially become “essay day,” when I post a new or revised essay. Here’s one I wrote in February about airline travel. Hope you enjoy it.
Small Thoughts on Long Distances
Everyone says that air travel is a nightmare, and with good reason. No other form of transportation offers so many opportunities to be humiliated, so many chances to judge and be judged by the smallest details.
It starts with removing your shoes. A natural act at home, but one that becomes fraught with questions in an airport. Do my feet smell? Is that a hole in my sock? Has it been too long since my last pedicure? The purpose of shoe removal-to ensure that we don’t let fidgety, shifty terrorists onboard-leads to shifty, fidgety passengers distracted about the state of their feet.
As you remove your shoes before God and the TSA, you sense the hostile thoughts of people waiting in line behind you. You know these thoughts because you had them, just before you were called up to the x-ray machine. Who brings two laptops with them? How could that person forget they had a huge bottle of shampoo? You see people looking at your shoes. Judging them. I hope those lace-up boots have a zipper somewhere. Who wears three-inch stilettos at an airport? This guy couldn’t untie his shoes before he put his bag on the belt? The subsequent hopping, untying and awkwardness has caught the attention of retailers, who now sell “airport shoes” designed to save time and spare ridicule. Until you get off the plane, that is. Then they seem like a waste of money.
Of course, you’re not done yet; there’s still metal detection screening. In America, you’re presented with a security Sophie’s choice: do you get felt up by one stranger or do you let a roomful of them see that you haven’t quite lost those holiday pounds? If the metal detector buzzes, you get to show a crowd how much change there is in your pocket, whether your belt is really needed to hold up your pants, and if all those “silver” bracelets are real.
After the humiliation of security screening, I like reward myself by buying my more embarrassing favorite things: fashion magazines, candy by the bagful, and tawdry mystery novels that I disown upon landing. You might even see me at a Panda Express; airline food is so awful that I’ll happily eat crappy Chinese food before boarding.
Ah, boarding. If you think the feudal system is dead, watch the priority seating calls on a long flight. First-class passengers float through an anxious crowd, wondering if their cookies will be served warm. Then business class strides through the herd, certain that no one will stuff a steamer trunk above their seats. The remaining passengers are left with a plebian wish list: no crying babies, no smelly food, and hopes of snagging an empty aisle seat after takeoff.
Airplane travel has become a nightmare for a number of reasons: routes expanded, prices dropped and service waned. And at some point, somewhere between complaining about baggage limits and begging for an extra cup of water, we forgot something: air travel is magical. We can go from one side of the world to another in less than 24 hours. And we’re in the air, like birds! I have no idea how tons of steel and plastic and increasingly larger people can stay in the air for hours at a time, but I’m in awe of the person who figured it out.
Especially when things go wrong. My husband and I were travelling to his grandfather’s funeral in a commuter plane when the pilot made an announcement. The landing gears were stuck, and the runway was too short for the landing in our destination city. He wanted to go back to our departure airport and he thought there was enough fuel to do so. We were advised to review the safety landing instructions.
Our stewardess handled the situation with uncommon grace. After regretfully informing us that there was no alcohol on the plane, she told the eighteen passengers to consider landing with our heads between our knees. I looked at my husband, thought of our steel cage crashing on the ground, and told him I loved him. I then whispered my shameful thought: “I can’t believe the last thing I read might be Glamour Magazine.”
“It won’t be,” he said, and he was right. We landed safely and shook the pilot’s hand afterward. After the funeral, on our return home, we went through the TSA gauntlet only to discover that our flight had just been delayed for two hours for the ever-mysterious “mechanical reasons.” We shook our heads at the incompetence, and I went in search of Reeses Pieces and a copy of the New Yorker to go along with my Vogue. If I was going to die in a plane crash, I wanted to look classy.
Written February 1, 2011. Revised October 6, 2011.
Frugal feasting at Budapest’s Central Market
Budapest isn’t a backpackers’ paradise anymore. EU membership has its privileges—and its prices. Budget accommodations are scarce and restaurants can be pricey. Fortunately, there’s one place that a Real Housewife can find great deals and greater food: the Central Market.
I wrote about the Central Market last November, when I focused on souvenirs and smoked meats. There’s nothing wrong with making lunch of salami and a bottle of Tokaj, but the Central Market has more to offer. Upon entering the market, don’t be distracted by people carrying old-school wicker baskets, fruit vendors, and endless paprika stands. Don’t be tempted to buy a pre-made sandwich; STOP RIGHT THERE. That is for amateurs. Go to the second floor and make your way to the left side of the main entrance. You will see a long array of take-away hot food stands. This is where you want to be.
You’ll probably pass a long line of people waiting for langos, a Hungarian specialty of fried bread traditionally topped with cheese and sour cream.
Skip the langos line. Fried bread is okay, but there are far better ways to consume 1,500 calories. It’s not that great, not that cheap (even in the market) and the wait is way too long since every guidebook mentions this place. Pass the glazed eyes of Lonely Planet devotees, walk (or stop) by the wine and beer stand selling 20 ounce white wine spritzers, and end your journey at Fakanal Bistro.
It’s small, humble, and delicious. They’ve got stuffed cabbage, goose legs, fresh breads, goulash—you name it. The service is friendly, and the food is delicious. The location is peaceful but lively. And the prices are low for restaurant-quality food.
If you have room in your stomach after that, make your way downstairs to the bakeries dotting the first floor. There are several, so just choose a place that smells and looks promising. Some specialize in strudel; others have croissants and cookies. My favorite stand has dobos cake to die for.* Dobos cake is named after Hungarian baker József Dobos. It has five layers of cake between chocolate buttercream frosting and is topped with crunchy caramel. The caramel apparently keeps the cake from drying out. It also ensures that the cake will be eaten long before it becomes stale. YUM.
After cake, feel free to get a coffee upstairs or just pass out in the park across from the main entrance. Or better yet, walk off your meal by looking at some of the cheapest souvenir stands in town; they’re located on the other side of the second floor. Your wallet (and your stomach) will thank you. Your skinny jeans….not so much.
To go to the Dobos cake place I mentioned, walk in the main entrance and make your first left. At the end of that row, there will be a bakery on your right and a slightly tired-looking vegetable stand across the way. This is the bakery—apologies for not writing down its name! Get there before 11am for the best selection. The Central market is closed on Sundays.
(Two-fer) Church On Sunday: Subotica’s Synagogue and St. Theresa of Avila Basilica
That’s right folks, this weeks’ CoS is another twofer! Muz and I made a special trip to Subotica, Serbia this weekend. Subotica was already on our Belgrade (er, Serbian) Bucket List, but it was also a chance to meet Lana and Chris, the Americans-in-Serbia bloggers of “Live Life Like a Bestseller.” I think it should be subtitled “Live Life Like a Leapfrog” because they are always posing in a hilarious jumping style. You’ll have to visit the blog to see what I mean. If they have children, I predict an Olympic triple-jumper is born.
We agreed to meet at McDonald’s, aka European Meeting Point Number One. Insert-McDonald’s-hate here, but I can’t deny they’re easy to find and usually in the center of things. In Subotica, McDonald’s is inside the fabulous, art-noveau style Town Hall. Not a bad place to get a Big Mac.
This light and my photo skills stunk, sorry.
As pretty as it was, we didn’t stay for long. Chris and Lana led us to another lovely cafe-lined avenue where we lingered over drinks in true Serbian style. Afterwards, they graciously led us on a tour of the town.
Subotica is a leafier, smaller version of Novi Sad. It has Hungarian/Secessionist architecture, lots of wide avenues, and little parks around every corner. A few miles away is Lake Palic, ringed by a Poconos-ish collection of Hungarian villas. We “oohed” at every street like idiots. Then Lana asked us the money question: “Want to see the synagogue?”
Does the Pope wear a big hat? RHOB could not resist. It may surprise readers that I started writing about churches not out of pious devotion, but sheer laziness. I joined NaBloPoMo last November. That first Sunday, out of desperation for things to write about, I described Belgrade’s Sveti Sava. The next Sunday, when I was struggling for material, I decided to talk about St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Budapest. A habit was born. Now, I need to see a new church every week. This is how addiction starts, kids!
The Synagogue is still beautiful, but in a state of serious disrepair. Windows are broken and the doors are locked to prevent people from wandering in and possibly injuring themselves. The local Jewish population was decimated in World War One, and there are no funds to renovate the building back to its original glory. Still, it was a lovely sight.
After that, we walked to St. Theresa of Avila, Subotica’s Catholic Basilica. St. Theresa is known for being a writer and also appears on Subotica’s coat of arms. Sister was doing doing it for herself, indeed.
The church was built in 1779. It’s been renovated several times but now there are large cracks in the facade. I realize this isn’t good for the building, but it’s awfully cool to look at. The “100” sign above the door celebrates the 100th Duzijanca, or harvest celebration.
The church was designed by a Hungarian architect, which explains the colorful detailed painting pattern along the ceiling. There is a beautiful stained glass window facing the altar, but my camera couldn’t quite capture its beauty.
We left the church and parted ways with our new friends, with promises of a Belgrade tour in the near future. I hope Lana enjoys the White City; certainly Subotica was all it was “cracked up” to be.
Real Housewife of Belgrade 
